


when they fight, they fight

by randomhorse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, basically foreplay in the first chapter, handjobs and blowjobs in the second chapter, this is all gaby's doing, you go gaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomhorse/pseuds/randomhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not playing games with you, Solo,” Illya says. “You cheat.”<br/>He looks up, and Napoleon is drinking from the bottle again, deep, full gulps, like he’s thirsty for it. When he catches Illya looking, he smiles around the bottleneck, smugly, but also – ah. Amateur hour. </p><p>or, The one in which Napoleon's seduction technique goes up against Illya's self-control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Cuando ellos pelean , pelean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055249) by [Libia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libia/pseuds/Libia)



 

 

Illya hasn’t once ordered room service in his life, so when room service knocks on the door of his hotel room at two in the morning he’s fully prepared to send them to hell. Only it isn’t room service, it’s Napoleon Solo with a bottle of obscenely expensive champagne, and hell is suddenly not that much of a foreign concept anymore. _Of course_. He should have known.

“Solo,” he says, taking in Napoleon standing outside on the corridor, fully dressed, like himself, except for the shoes. Instead, hotel issued slippers. Somehow, he can pull off the look.

“Mind if I come in?” Napoleon asks.

Instead of an answer, Illya steps aside and walks back to his chessboard, leaving it to Napoleon to let himself in.

“I brought you a –”

“I’m not drinking,” Illya says.

“You’re Russian,” Napoleon says, with an affected cock of the head and a look so patronizing it evokes a vivid image in Illya’s mind: one of himself closing his fists around that chiseled neck, and the sensation of multiple cervical vertebrae crushing under his fingers.

“I don’t drink.”

“Well,” Napoleon says and sits himself down on the sofa opposite Illya and his chess board. “I hope you don’t mind if I do.” He unceremoniously pops the cork and helps himself to a swing directly from the bottle. That at least gathers Illya’s attention.

“What do you want, Solo?” Illya asks.

“A chat?” Napoleon tries.

Illya huffs half a laugh. “Please leave.”

“A game of chess?” Napoleon suggests.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“A game of cards?”

“I’m not playing games with you, Solo,” Illya says. “You cheat.”

He looks up, and Napoleon is drinking from the bottle again, deep, full gulps, like he’s thirsty for it. When he catches Illya looking, he smiles around the bottleneck, smugly but also – ah. Amateur hour.

“I can’t help you,” Illya says, and gets up, stretches his full, impressive lengths and walks over to the window, where the Italian night, humming and humid, is rolling in through the opened blinds and thin curtains. “With whatever your problem is.”

“Boredom?” Napoleon suggests.

Illya almost laughs.

“Honestly, Kuryakin,” Napoleon says. “I was hoping I could talk to you.” And he gets up and moves towards the window, pointedly leaving the bottle at the sofa. The sharp, bright moonlight is flattering on his face, brings out the edges of his jaw, his cheekbones, and the soft curve of his Adam’s apple, where this morning’s shave is just barely lasting. Illya knows Napoleon is only too aware of this effect.

 “Talk,” Illya says.

“There’s unfinished business between us,” Napoleon says, and adjusts his jawline towards the moonlight, turning ever so slightly towards Illya. “I thought you felt it, too.”

“Is there?”

“You saved my life,“ Napoleon says, closing the distance between them with a deliberate step in Illya’s direction.

“You saved mine first,” Illya replies.

“You know what’s crazy about these things?” Napoleon says, approaching further, and Illya would almost buy his conversational tone, if it wasn’t for the distinctly predatory glimmer in his eyes. “They don’t cancel each other out.”

“I paid my debt,” Illya says.

“If debt is what we’re talking about, yes,” Napoleon says, and the air is growing thin between them. Illya knows that, if he takes a step back, there’s only the balcony with a very low, very fragile balustrade behind him. _He moves like a panther_ , Illya thinks. It’s chilling and just a tiny bit flattering, the registers Solo pulls on him. “Is that what we’re talking about?” Napoleon sizes Illya up with a look, bottom to top. “Debt?”

“What else is there?” Illya asks.

“Trust,” Napoleon replies instantly, prepared for the question. “It adds up, you know.”

“There’s nothing to add,” Illya says stoically.

“You don’t trust me?” Napoleon asks. He doesn’t sound insulted as such. Instead he raises an eyebrow feigning incredulity, teasing, but Illya has watched him in action enough to know when he acts for effect and when he acts for disguise.

“I trust you,” Illya offers. “Professionally,” he adds, not budging an inch, his hands still in his pockets, his stance open, neutral, unaffected.

Napoleon tries silence. Illya can almost feel it drop to the floor in the short, tense distance Solo created between them. Like all of his advances, the pointed pause misses its mark. Napoleon knows as well as Illya does. It takes just a second for him to purse his lips and fall back on the heels of his feet, his shoulders slumping.

“Hm,” Napoleon says and sighs, exasperated, dropping the act. The predatory glimmer is gone just like that. “This is not working out, is it?”

“What is?” Illya asks.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Napoleon says, pointedly not stepping back, not restoring what would be an appropriate measure of personal space. It’s not defeat, Illya knows as much. It’s just a different mode of attack. A change of tactics. At least that means the end of a tactic that had him physically cornered with his back to a five-story drop, with Napoleon coming closer, dangerously so. It drastically minimizes the risk of escalation and puts Napoleon’s neck in a considerably safer position.

Illya raises an eyebrow.

“A bet,” Napoleon admits, and his sheepishness is a little more convincing than his feigned boredom. “I bet Gaby I could seduce anyone, and she chose you for a challenge.”

“Is that what’s happening here,” Illya deadpans, just to rile Napoleon up. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Napoleon, indeed, looks slightly offended at that. “You didn’t –”

“No,” Illya says. “I understand. You did pull out all the stops.” Which, as far as Napoleon’s reaction goes, is even worse. Behind his neutral expression, Illya is having a field day.

“I’m out of practice with men,” Napoleon says by means of an explanation. “That being said,” he continues, setting his jaw, “cards on the table or not, I’m still going for the prize.”

“What’s the prize?” Illya asks, and hopes to god that _the prize_ is not a metaphor. He wouldn’t put it past Napoleon.

“First choice of car next mission,” Napoleon says. “European craftsmanship is all very well, but you have yet to experience American excellence.”

Illya isn’t quite sure if he isn’t still, in some weird way, referring to his dick.

“So what would be in there for me?” he asks.

“Ask me again in the morning,” Napoleon retorts with a wicked grin.

Illya just looks at him, unimpressed.

“Come on, peril, was all this lost on you?” Napoleon asks teasingly, dropping his voice to a purr, taking a playful step towards him. “The touchy-feely, the submissive? Maybe I read you wrong, maybe I should try to establish dominance. I thought you Russians had it bad for equality, but maybe you’re just the exception –”

And Illya can feel it again, the old rage, just enough to make him roll with his instincts, fuck control, fuck self-preservation, and fuck this cocky American in particular.

He grabs Napoleon’s neck firmly and slams him into the wall, strongly enough to make the chandelier sing underneath the ceiling, strongly enough for Napoleon to reflexively catch his wrists, put up a fight before Illya settles against him, cuts off the escape route with one hand against the wall and the other tight against Napoleon’s esophagus.

“What was that for?” Napoleon wheezes, grinning, exhilarated. Illya can’t blame him, Napoleon doesn’t just _know_ which of his buttons to push. He’s irritatingly good at it.

“Cut out the cockiness, Solo,” Illya replies, dangerously close to Napoleon’s face, close enough to snap. He loses the grip on Napoleon’s throat, and shifts his weight to pin him in place instead. A thigh heavily against Napoleon’s crotch and that’s – oh. Well, that’s not really a _surprise_ as such, but pleasant nonetheless.

“What,” Napoleon hisses, and Illya offers the hint of a grin, drops his gaze for a second, down to Napoleon’s crotch, and back up at his face. That’s all the answer Napoleon needs.

“What, I’m going with the moment,” he snaps.

“A good moment, yes?” Illya says, and fits his thumb and index finger back just under Napoleon’s jaw, pressing gently – and he can feel Napoleon’s breath catch in his chest, and his cock stir against his thigh, not just half hard anymore. Illya smiles.

Napoleon looks at him, pupils blown, defiantly, a gaze that says, _oh yeah, I can play this game, too_ , as he loses his hands from where they had clasped on to Illya’s wrists, drags them down his chest and around his waist, and further.

Napoleon’s right hand grasps Illya’s ass firmly, and Illya almost gasps when his left slides even further down, between his legs. Instead, it’s Napoleon who freezes in his motions.

“What’s that?” Napoleon asks and tips his head back to look at Illya, and for the first time that night there’s a genuine expression on his face, and genuine bewilderment of all things.

“That’s not usually what –”, Illya starts, and then, “Oh.”

Illya breathes out quietly when Napoleon’s hand travels further along the wire running underneath his tweed pants towards a battery in his shoe, and then up towards his waistband, finding the familiar rectangular bulge of a transmitter.

Illya closes his eyes for a second, found out. Then he grins.

“You didn’t think she’d bet only you, did you?” Illya says.

Napoleon’s eyes drop down to the transmitter in his hand, then shoot up to Illya. The penny drops. “That little –” Napoleon starts.

“Shh,” Illya interrupts him. “She can still hear you.”

Without a second of hesitation, Napoleon rips the cable from the transmitter, leaving a frayed end and the faint smell of burning rubber. “Not now she can’t,” he says, stuffing the remainder of the transmitter into his pocket.

“What did you bet on?” Napoleon asks. Illya thought he’d be irritated, angry even, on a good day. But it’s neither of those things. Illya can’t quite put his finger on it.

“First choice of rooms next mission – if I don’t let you kiss me,” Illya says.

“Choice of rooms? That’s not even ours to decide,” Napoleon says, looking offended.

“When she puts in a good word with Waverly, apparently it is,” Illya says, smugly, and Napoleon looks so scandalized, Illya can hardly suppress a chuckle. With an ego that size, you’d think it’d bruise less easily, but here they are.

“She played you like a fiddle,” Napoleon says. “I can’t believe it. I never stood a chance.” And suddenly Illya understands. This is Napoleon Solo _sulking_ , and this bet just proved to be a whole lot more entertaining.

“I’d say she played both of us,” Illya says. “Given our current position, and hers, up in the suite. I bet she’s excellently entertained.” He’s still propped against Napoleon, and Napoleon’s still hard, and it is – surprisingly – not the most uncomfortable position to be in. He raises his right hand, lets his thumb just graze Napoleon’s jawline, stubble prickling under his touch, before he rests it on the dimple of his chin to gently tip his head back.

“You _knew_ I was coming down,” Napoleon says, still piecing together the exact puzzle pieces of his defeat.

“Yes,” Illya says.

“And you knew what I was going for,” Napoleon says. “Right from the start.”

“But I _always_ do, cowboy,” Illya purrs, mimicking Napoleon’s act, and to his amusement Napoleon’s breath catches for a second and he goes full alert, like a dog catching its reflection in a mirror, before he catches Illya’s ruse and shoots him an annoyed look.

“Stop that,” he hisses. Illya grins.

“I did,” he answers Solo’s question, going back to stoic Soviet born and raised. Well, as stoic as he can be, having Napoleon trapped between himself and the pretty solid wall of an exquisitely furnished Italian hotel room. “You were not bad though. Any other man may have taken you in a heartbeat.”

Napoleon accepts that stroke of his ego with what little dignity he has left.

“The bottle was a good move,” Illya admits.

That at last brings a smug smile to Napoleon’s face. “Battle-tested,” he says.

“You’re not terrible at this,” Illya says, fitting his left hand against Napoleon’s neck, just underneath his ear.

“Is that surprise I hear?” Napoleon asks.

“Mild appreciation,” Illya says. “I may have underestimated you.”

“We both underestimated _her_ , though,” Napoleon says. “Playing both of us, you’d think one of us should have caught on to it.”

“She never played me,” Illya says, readjusting his stance so Napoleon’s hard cock presses flush against his thigh through two layers of tweed. He knows there’s no reason for them to keep up the game, but he also knows Napoleon is too far gone to drop it and maybe, just maybe, Illya is as well.

“Of course she didn’t,” Napoleon says, with a hint of condescension.

“She didn’t,” Illya insists. “She told me everything, only asked me to raise the bar for you a little.”

“Raise the bar, yes?” Napoleon says. “Make it a little _harder_ for me?” He grins a sly grin.

“I’m regretting this right now,” Illya says.

“And yet, you’re here,” Napoleon retorts.

“And yet I am,” Illya says, leaning in ever so slightly, increasing friction.

“So,” Napoleon asks. “What shall we do about it?” And that’s the old Napoleon again, the one who can shake an offense easily, given that he can still steal the prize. Napoleon Solo, who slowly relaxes, his hands dropping on Illya’s waistband again, and travelling down.

“I’m still winning the bet,” Illya says. Two layers of tweed can’t possibly disguise that he’s as hard as Napoleon is, pressed against his hipbone.

“You are?” Napoleon says, his smile just this side of patronizing, when he pulls Illya in, his hands firmly locked on to his ass, and rolls his hips just once, smoothly, slowly. “Honey, you’re very confident.”

“I am,” Illya says, his breath slowing. “You still haven’t kissed me.”

“Yet,” Napoleon says. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Illya scoots back a little, just enough for Napoleon lift his hips from the wall to not lose contact.

“You think you can play me?” Illya asks, raising one eyebrow. Napoleon’s head still rests against the patterned wallpaper. The distance is comfortable, you’d almost think non-threatening, but Napoleon’s neck is bared, and his Adam’s apple is bobbing under his stubbly skin, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, and his lips look like cherries ready to pick. It’s hard for Illya to think tactics with Napoleon’s boner still flush against his thigh.

“I see your move, Solo,” Illya says. “You’re not making me lose this.”

The corners of Napoleon’s mouth curl into a smirk, and, heaven, he _is_ good at this, even when he’s playing his cards so openly. There’s something thrilling about his twisted kind of honesty. When Illya adjusts his stance, Napoleon _wheezes_ – and that’s unintentional. Illya can tell from the way his eyes widen for just a split second.

“Was she specific about the mouth,” Napoleon says, and his voice is already short, as if there wasn’t enough breath in his lungs to carry the words.

“What?”

“No kissing, she said, right?” Napoleon says. “Did she _say_ on the mouth, or –”

“You are devious,” Illya says, but his gaze darts down to where Napoleon’s neck disappears under the lapel of his crisp white shirt, and he knows Napoleon picks up on that, and just that, just this quick look, is already a breach in his defense.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want this,” Napoleon says, and Illya cannot lie. Not with how their crotches press together, and the temperature rising between them, well beyond boiling.

“She never said lips,” Illya says, “but she was specific about _you_ kissing _me_.” Napoleon’s smirk widens into a smile. A wicked smile, mind, but a smile.

“May I propose we move to the bed,” he says. “This position is becoming a bit – straining –”

Illya laughs, softly. “You’re not getting off this easily, Solo,” he says, and, supporting his own weight with his arm propped against the wall next to Napoleon’s head, leans in slowly. Napoleon tips his head back to meet him halfway, but as soon as he moves, Illya stops, retreats.

Napoleon rolls his eyes, but Illya doesn’t budge an inch until Napoleon’s head falls back against the wall with a dull _thud_. Finally, Napoleon holds still long enough for Illya to land his lips on Napoleon’s neck, right where his pulse is rabbiting under his skin.

Napoleon breathes a word that sounds suspiciously like “Fuck”.

Illya takes his time. His blood is boiling now, racing. His head feels light and fuzzy, the majority of his blood pounding elsewhere, but if he’s got one thing, he’s got control. When Napoleon moves, Illya catches his hand, pins it to the wall with his own.

His lips never once leave Napoleon’s neck. He tastes skin, just the hint of aftershave bitter on his tongue, the defined edge of Napoleon’s Adam’s apple under his lips. His left hand, the one that’s not pinning Napoleon to the wall, finds his tie and loses the knot, fiddles open the top buttons of Napoleon’s dress shirt, exposing more skin. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya can see he closed his eyes and opened his mouth, a soft _oh_ , and there’s not much to be said, except that Illya finds himself resenting Gaby and her stupid bet much more forcefully than he ever thought possible.

Illya makes his way to Napoleon’s ear, more licking than kissing, and Napoleon’s thigs start shaking against his. His left hand finds the back of Illya’s neck, more for support than anything, grasping on tightly. He’s sweating, and his fingers leave desperate marks just underneath his hairline where they cling to Illya. When Illya closes his lips around Napoleon’s left earlobe, Napoleon’s hips twitch forward, causing friction on Illya’s cock caught under too many layers of fabric against Napoleon’s hip bone.

“Get to the point,” Napoleon snarls into his ear, his breath coming in short huffs now, and Illya can tell he’s close, very close.

Instead of an answer, Illya hums a laugh against the tender spot just underneath Napoleon’s ear, and feels Napoleon’s grip on his neck tighten in response. He could make him come in his expensive tweed pants right then and there, and there’s a delicious amount of power in that, and a just as delicious amount of degradation for Napoleon. He _could_ , and he wouldn’t even be losing, technically, since it was him who kissed Napoleon, not vice versa – but here they are, and in the end he just resents Napoleon a little bit too much to grant him satisfaction.

Illya straightens his back and takes a step away from Napoleon, easily shaking off the clammy hand in his neck, and dropping the one he pinned against the wall, severing each and every point of physical contact between them, leaving Napoleon against the wall, disheveled, breathing heavily, high, and hard, and _furious_.

“What,” Napoleon wheezes, and he looks almost bereft, like there’s something missing, and Illya can feel it, too, the night air colder and harsher against his skin where there was heat caught between them only seconds ago.

Illya falls back on his heels, and he knows he can’t hide the outline of his hard cock through his pants, or the fact that his hair is a mess and his pupils are blown, but he can savor the moment of control, and the fact that Napoleon is looking at him as if he was ready for murder.

There’s something exhilarating about his fury, which mostly stems from the fact that Illya knows for a fact that no matter how hard he tried, Napoleon Solo could never physically overpower him. It puts him in the comfortable position of a spectator, rather than a potential victim.

“ _That’s_ you move?” Napoleon asks.

Illya smiles. He’s in control, steady, and if his heart is racing and his cock aching for warmth and touch it’s just bodily functions. “Had you there,” he says.

“That’s,” Napoleon says, and his fury shifts just slightly towards something that verges on appreciation, “that’s a dick move, Kuryakin.”

Illya’s mouth twitches.

Napoleon runs a hand through his disheveled hair, to very little avail. The he straightens his back. “My move now,” he says.

And crashes against Illya with surprising force, propelling him back against the sofa, and it’s all down to Illya’s fighting instincts that he can catch his balance before he tumbles into a horizontal position with Napoleon on top of him. Napoleon, still upright, is now pressed against him again, between Illya’s thighs this time, with one hand conveniently on the bulge in Illya’s pants and his flushed lips dangerously close to his face, and there’s no way Illya can scoot back without losing balance.

“No kissing,” Illya says, and his voice sounds low, and more threatening than intended with his breath catching in his throat. Napoleon’s hand on his cock tightens ever so slightly and Illya has to close his eyes for a second, seeing stars.

“This is not kissing,” Napoleon says, and another smile is curling the edges of his mouth, and then he sinks to his knees, his fingers skillfully opening Illya’s belt and unhooking his waistband in the process. One swift motion, a sleight of hand. Well practiced, no doubt.

This time it’s for Illya to find something to hold on to when Napoleon finally lays hands on his cock to pull it free from his pants, and there’s nothing but Napoleon’s head within reach, his short, slick hair slipping through Illya’s big hands way too easily.

Napoleon licks his lips, and looks up at Illya. He waits for him to lock eyes before he takes Illya’s cock in his mouth. It’s hot and wet and _tight_ – and Napoleon was right, this is nothing like kissing. This is infinitely, incomparably better.

Napoleon closes his lips around the head of Illya’s cock first, lets his tongue swirl, sucks gently, and then works along the length of it, slow and wet, using tongue and teeth, and time. Especially time. It’s not kissing it’s – entirely less dignified than that. Illya feels his grip tighten on Napoleon’s head, the tips of his fingers pressing into the scalp. Napoleon’s lips are back on the tip of Illya’s cock, and he swallows it down, his lips tight around the shaft, his cheeks stretched hollow.

“I thought you were out of practice with men,” Illya says, against the rush of blood in his ears, and Napoleon laughs, and Illya can feel the vibration of sound ripple right though himself, collecting hot and heavy at the base of his spine. He holds on tighter to Napoleon’s head, feels his jaw working underneath his fingertips, and the sounds, wet and deep, and the heat building up, blinding.

Illya doesn’t allow himself to let go, normally, but this – this is different from honeypot missions and games of control, this is –

Napoleon slows down, and lets the head of Illya’s cock pop out of his mouth, his lips still on it, shiny from spit and precome, and he looks up at Illya almost defiantly.

“If I was a complete dick,” he says, emphasizing the _if_ as if he wasn’t just that, “I’d just stop right now.” His lips are moving against the tip of Illya’s cock, and his breath is ghosting coldly on the wet, sensitive skin.

Illya doesn’t have to say anything. His cock is drooling precome onto Napoleon’s lips, and he shifts his grasp on Napoleon’s head so he can tilt it up. Napoleon catches his left thumb with his teeth, bites it softly, then sucks on it like he did on Illya’s cock. “You don’t want that, do you?” Napoleon asks, the words slurring around the finger in his mouth.

Illya takes a long moment to look at him, on his knees, flushed, lips closed around Illya’s thumb, left hand palming his own cock through his pants, it’s a sight for the gods. It’s been some time since Illya has been in a position like this, and what he wantedwas never of any relevance then. He knows _need_ and _must_. It’s all the more surprising that now, looking down at Napoleon, he feels _want_ , and not the rational kind, but a visceral, animal feeling that’s somehow less connected to getting off (thatwould be need, _that_ he knows) and more to those particular lips, and those particular eyes, beetle-black now, and that goddamn smirk that still won’t go away.

“Come up here,” Illya says. He pulls his finger from Napoleon’s mouth with a soft _pop_ , lets go of Napoleon’s head, finds his tie with his left hand and, pulling him up, his belt and fly with his right. Napoleon stumbles for balance for a moment, and then settles against him, Illya’s cock, still drooling, caught against the cool fabric of Napoleon’s dress shirt. Suddenly, almost on eyelevel again, Illya can’t think of a good enough reason not to kiss him.

It’s clumsy and messy, Illya trying to force his tongue past Napoleon’s teeth, and it takes just a second for Napoleon to pull back and look at Illya.

“Kissing?” he asks, as if he needed to verify that it’s still Illya’s brain in control.

“Yes,” Illya breathes, and Napoleon doesn’t even wait for him to finish, just steals the word right from his mouth, his hands suddenly in the back of Illya’s neck, pulling him in, and on his cheeks, in his hair. And yes, Napoleon’s lips on his cock were good, but kissing is something else entirely and something criminally underrated, as Illya comes to realize.

Napoleon’s stubble rasps against Illya’s cheek, Napoleon’s lips explore the length of his jawline down to his ear, and next his tongue is wet and heavy in Illya’s mouth, and next he feels the sharp sting of teeth on his bottom lip, and the metallic taste of blood that could be his or not. Napoleon is _good_ at this, and while he’s not exactly coherent, he sure is noisy, small sounds escaping from as deep down as his chest, fluttering between them.

“Get me off,” Napoleon says against the small of Illya’s neck, trailing kisses upwards.

“What,” Illya breathes.

“Just get me off,” Napoleon repeats, not impatiently, but urgently, catches one of Illya’s hands and guides it down to the bulge in his pants where Illya abandoned his half-opened belt buckle too long ago.

Illya understands. He makes short work of Napoleon’s fly and shoves his hand down his pants, closes it around his cock, heavy and hot in his hand, and earns a huff of hot breath against his neck from Napoleon in response.

“Fuck,” Napoleon says, “fuck”, and snaps his hips up against Illya’s hand, causing friction on Illya’s cock against Napoleon’s shirt. Napoleon’s hands work Illya’s shirt from his waistband, and crawl up his bare back underneath, leaving pressure marks in the process.

“Get it out,” Napoleon hisses, and twists his hips forwards and upwards.

“Stop moving,” Illya says, and untangles Napoleon’s cock from his underwear, tight and wet with precome, and finally Illya fits their crotches together, lines their cocks up and closes his hand around both.

“Fuck,” Napoleon says, and Illya’s mouth is too dry to say anything. Instead he bows down to kiss Napoleon again, short and dry this time, and indicates him to take over with a nod of the head that’s almost more felt than seen.

Napoleon starts moving, slowly at first, sweat and precome slicking them up, then he thrusts into the tightness of Illya’s grip, his movements erratic, his fists clenched against the small of Illya’s back and there’s nothing Illya can do but to hold on to their cocks with one and to Napoleon’s neck with the other hand while Napoleon is doing all the work, huffing and cursing under his breath.

And then Illya is out, blackout, whiteout, whatever, wiped blank for the space of seconds when he comes hot and heavy on Napoleon’s shirt, and Napoleon follows only instants later with a curse and, miraculously, a grin.

Air fills Illya’s lungs like he was drowning before, cool and steadying. Napoleon’s forehead falls against Illya’s shoulder, hiding his face, but Illya can see he’s flushed bright red, and he can feel him laughing, the vibration catching on to his body where they’re still pressed together tightly.

“Shit,” Napoleon says eventually, and quite inadequately. “You okay?”

And Illya couldn’t answer this question even if he had the breath for it. He wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s been a strange, strange night.

He finds his left hand still in Napoleon’s neck, and it doesn’t feel misplaced there, so he just squeezes him lightly in response, and that seems to be enough.

“It looks like we lost a bet,” Napoleon says, and takes his head off Illya’s shoulder to look at him. His eyes are brighter now somehow, or maybe that’s just his pupils returning to their natural size.

“You didn’t,” Illya says.

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Napoleon says. “This was never intended to be this – ” He hestitates. “– mutual,” he ends.

Illya nods vaguely, smiles. This is as close to a compliment as Napoleon Solo gets. He feels too heavy for words and just leans in to kiss Napoleon again, not wanting or needing this time. Just because he can.

It’s almost as if Napoleon is taken by surprise, but even if he is, he relaxes into it instantly. The heat is gone and has made room for a comfortable, lazy warmth between them, one that will be gone in the morning once they go back to regular spy work and bickering, Illya is sure of that.

His hands crawl around Napoleon’s back, pull him in, not caring that their pants are still hanging around their thighs and their shirts and bellies are sticky with sweat  and come. He will savor this for just a minute longer.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was never supposed to be a second chapter. But then I was never going to see U.N.C.L.E. a second time and this fic was never meant to be popular. So here you go, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> (This is the end of this fic though. For sure this time.)

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe one day there'll be a second chapter to this. You never know.
> 
> (edit: There's now a second chapter. I'm blaming all of you for this.)
> 
> Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w45SZvEKMME).
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://tiny-steve.tumblr.com/)!


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